Apologies for my long absence!
I am "covered in shame" not to have communicated with you all, mes enfants, when I know you need it so. Especially now, as the weather grows warmer and here in beautiful New York City, the fashion-challenged come out from under their huge colorless coats and woven Sherpa hats (shudder).
"Haute Cou-Poor," my program at the Fashion Institute of Technology to teach the indigent about Fashion In The True Sense, has been literally taking up all of my time, day and night! Who knew something so hellishly close to work could be so...well, hellish? Even with all of those idiotic student interns? They are almost as stupid as my personal assistant!
(Well, no one is that stupid, but I digress.)
Andre Leon Talley and I had what can only be called in today's parlance, a "smackdown" about that HIDEOUS jacket he put on beautiful, voluptuous Jennifer Hudson for the Oscars. The man simply cannot handle criticism of the mildest kind. It comes with the territory, everyone pussyfooting around him, afraid they'll lose their job. Now he is one of my dearest friends; and anyone I have to look UP at when I'm talking to them has a special place in my heart.
But that jacket. No.
It was bad enough, I told him, that he adored Marc Jacobs's collection, and appeared on the Style network calling Nicholas Guest one of fashion's greatest thinkers (excuse me?). But the jacket was unpardonable, a major failing of taste on an international scale. In all candor, I should have had the sense to have this conversation in public, perhaps at Pastis, instead of my beautiful Central Park West apartment.
Dahlings, the man went simply berserk. You would have thought nobody had questioned his taste since 1973. Perhaps no one has. First, a torrent of abuse directed at yours truly, saying that I wasn't fit to vomit on Anna Wintour's skirt (cf. my February 4th post on Fashion Week). Then Andre grabbed one of my prized Faberge' eggs, blue and gold, and CRUSHED IT in his massive hand, whereupon I screamed!
I confess. I lost control of myself. I sicc'ed Bucky on Andre Leon Talley.
No one breaks my blue and gold Faberge' egg and gets away with it.
(This is Bucky sharpening his teeth on a rawhide.)
Bucky may only weigh 14 pounds and stand 16 inches tall next to Andre's 6 feet 9 inches or whatever it is, but that dog is a well-trained little minpin and defended his mistress!
The fearless beast leapt upward and sank his teeth deep into the back of Andre's calf, right out of Andre's reach (Bucky is a very sensible canine). As much as he swatted, Andre could not dislodge my dog, until I gave the command to let go and run!* Bucky galloped out of the sitting room, a flap of black linen pant fabric still in his jaws.
Andre collapsed on my divan, which for a moment I feared would collapse under Andre, in hysterical tears, threatening to sue me, to ruin my reputation, to tell people the heinous lie my hair is not naturally blonde!
In the interest of Andre's dignity, I will spare you further details of the next half hour. Suffice to say we parted still friends, although I will be receiving some hefty medical bills ere long, and "Haute Cou-Poor" will be the less for Andre's non-participation. But one must take the rough with the smooth. Thank goodness Bucky has had all of his shots, and I have very expensive lawyers at the ready.
One must always be prepared, cést vrai.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Heroic Wonderdog
*Let go and run was, unfortunately, a command I had to teach my darling dog early on.
